


Opened Doors Beckon Us into Haunted Streets

by Zykaben



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, M/M, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), Supernatural Elements, Werewolf Tim Stoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben/pseuds/Zykaben
Summary: People have been disappearing without a trace off the streets of London. Not to worry, though, Tim Stoker—werewolf and amateur supernatural detective—is on the case. The only snag is that Tim's roommate and longtime friend (and crush), Martin Blackwood, won't let him go at it alone.(Or: Tim and Martin work to solve a mystery and maybe get together along the way)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30
Collections: Fic In A Box





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arazsya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/gifts).



> This fic was meant to be about 7k or 8k but as you can see it... ended up being a lot longer. This fic was a LOT of fun to write and I had a great time fleshing out the larger world. This was written for Arazsya for the Fic In A Box exchange. I hope you like it!
> 
> Also huge thanks to [Geo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_commissioned_me/) for beta reading and [Bloodsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/) for helping me bounce ideas and beta reading as well! Also thank you to Rhys and Dathen for helping me come up with the title!

The air was heavy, weighing down on his shoulders like a thick, damp blanket. The sky was overcast, casting the world in muted grey tones as sunlight strained through the clouds, fighting to reach streetlevel. The sidewalk had not escaped the aftermath of rain either, forcing him to sidestep the occasional puddle of dirty water. Everything was sodden and muggy and miserable.

Tim hunched his shoulders, drawing his jacket closer to ward off the slight chill. He never had been a fan of the rain, despite its _apparently_ poetic allure. All it did was soak his clothes and leave him feeling distinctly uncomfortable, not to mention the fact that it washes away any scent trails he might have been following. So yeah, rain sucked, Martin’s passionate rambles on symbolism be damned.

The thought warmed Tim slightly, the threat of a smile pulling at his lips. Maybe he’d mention it to Martin again later, get him riled up so he’d go off on a wild, heartfelt lecture. And Martin would likely make him some tea, too. That was certainly something he could look forward to.

But that was later. For now, Tim had reached his destination.

Tim made his way into the apartment complex before and up the stairs, taking two at a time. He passed by clones of the same door, the only variations between them their scuffmarks and the numbers on the plaques beside them.

At the right door with the right number, he finally stopped. This one had something unique to it—a device that acted as a doorbell and a camera. Tim raised a hand to rap the back of his knuckles against the surface of the door but caught himself before he could. Instead, he rang the doorbell device, the muffled melody of its chime sounding faintly through the door. 

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, only having to wait a few moments before he could hear footsteps making their way to the door from inside, quickly followed by the _click_ of the lock being undone. The door swung open.

“Why _do_ you need locks again?” Tim asked by way of greeting. “I know you have this place warded to hell and back again, so why the simple lock?”

Jon sighed, a mix of exasperated and fond in that way of his that Tim had long since grown familiar with. “Hello, Timothy.”

“Oh. _Timothy._ I see how it is.”

Jon ducked his head down, but Tim still caught the sharp exhale of laughter through Jon’s nose and the upward twitch at the corners of his mouth. The amused quiet hung between them for a moment before Jon lifted his head up. “Would you like to come in?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Jon stepped aside and Tim made his way in, not bothering to glance back as Jon shut the door behind him. The inside of the flat looked just like it always had; laminate flooring that styled itself to be hardwood floor, walls painted a pleasant pewter color, the dinged up coffee table, reddish-tannish-purplish sofa, the grey armchairs, and plenty of books and framed pictures on shelves and tablespaces.

Tim walked over to the sofa and sat down heavily, leaning back into the well-worn cushions. He waited until Jon settled himself into his armchair before speaking. “Is Georgie around for me to say hi to, or…?”

“I’m afraid not. She’s over at Melanie’s right now.”

“Ah, date night. Got it.”

Jon gave a small hum. “The Admiral went with them as well, in case you were wondering.”

“Damn, you're breaking my heart here, Jon. You know I only ever come here to see the Admiral.”

Jon let out a small, amused huff. Tim decided to take it as a victory.

“So, no roommate, no cat—what _did_ you call me over here for then? Can’t imagine it was just to have a chat.”

“We, we’ve chatted before.” There was a furrow to Jon’s brow now, something that was twisting into a look of concern. “I _do_ enjoy talking to you.”

It took everything in Tim to not march over to Jon and give him a hug. He was just so _earnest_ about it. “Yeah, I do too. It’s just that, you know, you usually text about stuff you get excited over, or maybe you call if you’re in the mood for it. But asking to meet in person to go over something? Yeah, that’s for work.”

“... That predictable, am I?”

“I like to think it’s because we’re friends.”

Tim watched as another smile tugged at Jon’s lips. “Of course. Silly me.”

“ _Very_ silly. Now come one, out with it. What do you have to tell me?”

Jon sobered up some at that, expression smoothing over into something decidedly more blank and business-like. “Right. It’s—hm. I don’t want to call it a _lead,_ per se, but there have been several… _mysterious_ disappearances as of late.”

“Huh. You don’t say. How many?”

“I’m not, ah, not quite sure?”

“Wait, what?” Tim blurted. “How do you not—isn’t that kind of your whole schtick? _Knowing_ things?”

“You know very well that it is. It’s just, well, these cases aren’t—” Jon stopped and let out a harsh sigh before continuing. “That’s part of the reason I thought that it would interest you. I know it’s not exactly a circus full of monsters, but scrying—or any other manner of divining information, for that matter—yields me nothing useful. Every time I try there’s just nothing there, like the people I’m looking for have been plucked out of existence.”

“That’s, that’s a bit unsettling. You really can’t glean _any_ thing?”

Jon’s gaze fell to the floor. “I perform the art of magic, not _miracles._ Things evading my sight aren’t exactly unheard of, they just… it usually points to something powerful enough to obscure itself. While that lack is frustrating, it can be telling.”

“No, I know, that makes perfect sense, sorry.” Tim ran a hand through his hair. “I just can’t remember the last time something pulled the wool over your eyes this badly.”

Jon let out a noncommittal hum at that. Some of the tension left his shoulders.

A thought struck Tim. “Wait, if you can’t actually see anything about this, then how’d you find out about it?”

“Oh, ah. Sources.”

Tim wasn’t quite able to choke down a laugh at that. “Well that’s _very_ descript. Can I hear anything about these ‘sources’?”

“It’s, it was from a client,” Jon admitted. “She came in and asked some questions, asked for help, but she wasn’t making any sense and I wasn’t about to go poking around her life with magic when she couldn’t even get a comprehensible sentence out. I tried to follow up with her later, see if she was doing alright. And… well. I couldn’t reach her. And then I couldn’t _find_ her.”

“Oh gods, that’s _awful._ Are you, are you alright?” Now that Tim was looking, really looking at him, he could see that the bags under Jon’s eyes were a bit more prominent than usual, his shoulders hunched just a touch more. “Christ, Jon.”

“I’m—well, I’m not _fine_ about it, but that’s not the point.”

“Even if it’s not the point, you still—”

“Tim.” Jon wasn’t glaring, but his gaze was stern and stubborn. “Let it go.”

Tim felt his jaw clench. Took in a deep breath. “Right. Okay. I’m just worried.”

“I know. But really, I’ll be fine. I’ve been having Georgie help me stay on track and… well. I called you here to help, too, in some manner.”

Oh. “You want me to investigate it. Even if it’s not a lead.”

Jon gave a small, tense nod. “I know you don’t exactly go looking into things like this unless you think it will lead to clues on Danny, but you’re the only person that I know and, and trust well enough to do this. I hope it’s a lead for you, really I do, I wouldn’t have asked you here otherwise, but if it’s _not_ then I would very much appreciate it if you would consider—”

“Jon?”

Jon’s mouth snapped shut. He swallowed. “Yes?”

Tim grinned. “Consider it a favor for a friend.”

* * *

The information that Jon had been able to give wasn’t much to go off of, but Tim had worked with less before.

The facts were this: one Lydia Halligan had come to Jon’s flat in quite a state and asked for help, though Jon hadn’t been able to glean what she needed help _with._ Jon had reached out to follow up with her a few days later, but had been unable to reach her. He had then been unable to locate her whereabouts, even after multiple attempts at scrying. He _was_ able to glean… something. Something he had quantified as a feeling or a vague yet distinct impression more than anything else. Scrying with that _feeling_ had revealed something a bit more. A few impressions of locations and times. Jon had used those to scour a list of missing persons he had somehow obtained (Tim was fairly certain Sasha was to blame for that) and had been able to find two more names of people who’d gone missing that he’d been unable to scry for: a Vander Lensik and a Paul McKenzie. By that point two weeks had passed and Jon had been forced to contend with the fact he would need outside help.

Enter one Timothy Stoker, charming publishing employee by day, werewolf by some nights, and amatuer supernatural investigator in the times between. And, most importantly, a friend of Jon’s. It only made sense that Jon would contact him and that Tim would agree.

Now he just needed to figure out where the hell to start.

Tim let out a sigh into his mug of tea. “I could try doing a quick Google search, I guess. See if they were on Facebook or had some online presence, maybe contact some relatives if those come up.”

Martin snorted. “Right, right, because that’s gone oh so very well for you in the past. A random man who can’t give them details but absolutely wants to help them, he just needs some answers.”

“Listen, it’s not _my_ fault that people don’t believe me when I say I want to help. And hey, some of them _have_ believed me. At least enough to get in the door.”

“Fools, the lot of them.”

Tim cast a crooked smile at Martin. “What does that make you then? For rooming with me?”

Martin shrugged cheerily. “Something worse than a fool, I guess.” He took a sip of his tea.

Tim just rolled his eyes, more affectionate than anything else, and drank from his own mug. Martin’s tea was the stuff of legends, the best that Tim could remember having. And Martin made it for both of them whenever he was feeling stressed, whenever he could tell _Tim_ was feeling stressed, or whenever the mood struck him. One of the many perks of having Martin Blackwood as a flatmate, Tim supposed.

“So…” Martin drawled after a bit, “What _are_ you going to do, then?”

Tim let out a sigh. “I dunno, complain? Cry? Sure, going to the families right out of the gate isn’t the best idea, but if I keep on hitting dead ends then I can at least _try_ to talk to them. For now, guess I’ll try going to the last places Jon could figure out they’d been. See if I can’t pick up a scent or two. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll be obvious.”

Martin laughed at that. Tim couldn’t help but notice how his whole face lit up as he did. “God, that’d be nice. When are we going?”

“I was thinking—wait.” Tim narrowed his eyes. _“We?”_

“Well you can’t be planning to go alone,” Martin said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and Tim wasn’t going to investigate this alone.

Except that Martin was wrong about that last bit. “Uh, I am, actually. As a matter of fact, I _will_ be. You know, like I always do?” Tim couldn't even say he was surprised that this had come up again.

“I could help, though! Having two sets of eyes is better than one, isn’t it? And, and what was the point of telling me everything if you’re just going to go charging in alone?”

“That’s—I told you because”— _I like talking to you, I care about you and want you to know things about me—_ “because it helps to talk stuff like this out, and you’re really clever with this kinda thing. Not because I want you to start throwing yourself into dangerous situations with me.”

Oh, Martin’s brow furrowing like that was never a good sign. “And what, _you_ can? Without any help so to speak?”

“You help—”

“Only after you’re already hurt!” Martin wasn’t shouting, but he was loud enough to make both of them startle. Softer, Martin continued, “Of course I'll help however I can. But maybe let it be more than just administering slapdash first aid to whatever injuries you come home with for once?”

Tim resisted the urge to clear his throat. “Hardly slapdash. You’re very careful with it.” _With me._

“Well, one of us has to be.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out from his throat. “And thank the gods for that. Probably wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t.”

“… If that’s true, then let me _go with you.”_

Tim couldn’t help but let out a sigh. Right. “Look, Martin—”

“I’m going with you. I get it, it might be dangerous, I’m _just_ a human—”

“I’ve never said that. I've never said you’re ‘just’ human.”

“No,” Martin conceded. “But still, that doesn’t change the fact that this is… this is just you going to places where the person or thing that vanished these people is probably long gone by now. It’s not like we’d be going into the _sewers._ It’s just”—Martin read the piece of paper with Tim’s notes scrawled onto it—“‘the Victoria Embankment Gardens’? Really? I can’t come along with you to look at a _park?”_

… Well okay, when Martin put it like that it didn’t sound reasonable. “I mean. We don’t know for _sure_ that it won’t be there.”

Martin did _not_ look amused. “So the thing that snatched someone up two weeks ago has just been in a public space for the past two weeks? Where _hundreds_ of people go daily? Where _families_ go? You’re seriously telling me—”

“Okay, yeah, I. I see your point. I _might_ be being… a little overprotective.” At Martin’s deadpan expression, Tim added, “Alright, maybe more than just a little.”

“Hmph.” Martin sat back and took a sip from his mug. “If we’re in agreement there, then…?”

Tim dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. Martin’s eyes bore into him. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. We’ll go tomorrow. Together.”

And _damn it_ if the grin that overtook Martin’s face at Tim’s concession wasn’t worth it. Tim’s eyes traced the curve of Martin's lips and drew lines between his freckles. Martin’s eyes were crinkled and his nose did that little scrunchy-thing it always did whenever Martin was happy.

God, Tim was gone on him.

“Thank you.” Martin was still beaming at him. “Glad you finally saw reason.”

Tim snorted at that. “Don’t be too sure it’ll stay that way. Besides, I’m still gonna need a couple promises from you before we head out.”

Martin muttered something that sounded a lot like “figures.” Tim took that as permission to keep talking.

“You’re gonna stay close to me. If things start getting dangerous, I want you to be close enough that I know where you are and can make sure you’re okay.”

Martin nodded. “I wasn’t exactly planning on splitting up, anyway.”

Tim did not let on just how much of a relief that was to hear. “Second, if stuff _does_ get dangerous, stay behind me and keep me between you and whatever it is that’s causing the danger. And if there’s a chance for you to run? Don’t hesitate. Just get out of there as fast as you possibly can.”

Martin seemed to chew on that for a bit. “And the same won’t apply to you, will it.” It was not a question.

“If I can, I’ll be right behind you.”

“And if you can’t?”

Tim shrugged. There wasn’t anything good to say to that that wouldn’t be a lie.

The air in the room grew tense, Martin’s face once more stoney and serious. Finally, after what felt like too long, Martin let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Fine. Fine, I’ll just—I’ll get away in case something goes wrong.”

“Oh.” Tim wasn’t expecting that to go over so easily. “That’s great. Well, I mean—thank you. For understanding.”

“Of course, Tim.” A smile was worming its way back onto Martin’s face. It made Tim’s chest clench in the best of ways.

Quiet fell over them. Not one of those awkward, tense quiets where no one knew what to say, but the kind of quiet that comes at the natural end of a conversation. It was nice.

Funny, how even silence was made more pleasant with Martin.

After a bit, Martin spoke up. “I’m going to head to the Co-op. Grab some stuff to make a proper dinner for once. I’m thinking pasta with some kind of chicken.”

Tim immediately perked up at that. “Mind if I tag along?”

Martin rolled his eyes, exaggerated and fond. “Like that’s even a question.”

Tim made sure to hold the door open with a gracious bow for Martin on their way out of the flat. Martin pretended to be annoyed through his giggles.

* * *

The park was nice. Lovely and green despite the air taking on an early-autumn chill. Families milled about in the afternoon sun, children running ahead of their parents or sticking close. The occasional couple walked by, tucked close together and holding hands. A few people sat on the green, blankets spread to shield them from the ground.

It felt weird to be so on guard in such a nice, normal place, but Tim knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving. He kept a keen eye as he and Martin walked.

“So what exactly are we looking for?” Martin asked.

“Well, Jon didn’t have a whole lot to go off of, so we’re just keeping an eye out for anything that seems out of place.”

“That’s… vague.”

Tim let out a small bark of laughter. “Welcome to supernatural detective work. It’s made up more of guesses and gut instincts than anything else.”

“Huh. That sounds… challenging.”

Tim turned to look at Martin. He idly noted how Martin’s curls bobbed with every step he took. “Does it? Isn’t that mostly what poetry is made up of? I’d thought you’d be an expert.”

Martin knocked his shoulder against Tim, not hard enough to hurt but enough for the rhythm of Tim’s steps to falter. Martin was smiling. “Shut up, Tim. I just meant that it sounds like a lot, keeping an eye out for anything and everything instead of looking for something specific. And then you actually have to deal with whatever it is that you find.”

“It can be kinda hard sometimes, yeah.” Tim wanted to add something about that being exactly why he preferred Martin to stay out of it, to stay _safe._ He wisely did not. “But, well, it’s kinda necessary. Making sure to stay alive and all that rot.”

Martin laughed at that. “You know, I _do_ think I prefer you alive.”

“What a coincidence! So do I.”

That made Martin shake his head and smile. It felt like a victory to Tim.

They spent the rest of the afternoon that way, walking around the park and keeping an eye—and, in Tim’s case, nose—out for anything strange. Anything that didn’t quite fit with the understanding of a mundane world.

Tim was disappointed but unsurprised when they came up with nothing at the end of the day.

“I mean, this is most of it, really,” Tim explained as they made their way back home. “Spending lots of time on stuff that doesn’t really get you anywhere until suddenly it does.”

“I know, I know,” Martin sighed. “And it makes perfect sense. I don’t know why I was hoping for something to happen.”

In Tim’s mind, nothing happening while Martin was there was a good thing, but he understood the sentiment. “That doesn’t ever really stop, hoping it’ll all just happen on the first try. Or, if it does, it hasn’t with me. It just becomes a part of the whole process.”

“Hm. Well, guess we’ll just have to check out someplace else tomorrow. Jon gave you two other locations, didn’t he?”

Tim opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned to look at Martin and did his bets to not narrow his eyes. “You’re not tagging along again to those.”

“Wha—oh, really Tim? Nothing even happened! We just walked around a park for the evening and now we’re heading home. You’re telling me _that_ is all I get to do?”

“You know, most people would call that a pleasant evening,” Tim pointed out, only half-jokingly.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t, but it’s hardly helping you, is it?”

Without really thinking, Tim blurted, “Having you there was nice.”

“Then let me go with you tomorrow,” Martin insisted. “If for no other reason, then at least to have some company. And to stick to your word.”

And gods, it was hard to say no when Martin said it like that, all passionate and stupidly logical. Tim bit at his lower lip as he considered how to respond. The chances of Martin getting bored before they ran into whatever was making people disappear was pretty high, by Tim’s estimation. They didn’t know where the thing was, where it would go, or what it was. Hanging out where it had taken victims—especially places as public as this one—probably wasn’t _too_ dangerous. And, well, Tim could always do some investigations of his own. Martin’s shift at the bakery he worked at had him going in _stupidly_ early: Martin would usually be out of the flat by four in the morning and back sometimes by one in the afternoon. Tim’s own hours were a bit more flexible, so if he really needed to he could just move his hours around and get up early that day.

“… Yeah. Okay, yeah,” Tim sighed. “We’ll go and investigate together some more. I was thinking of checking out the neighborhood Jon last saw that one guy in. What was his—right, Vander Lensik. I don’t remember the address but I don’t think it’s too far away. Somewhere in Hampstead. And you’re off work tomorrow so we can probably head out after lunch. That work?”

Martin smiled. “Yeah. That works. Thanks Tim.”

Tim nudged his shoulder against Martin’s. He didn’t linger. “Don’t mention it.”

Yeah. Everything was going to be fine.

* * *

Two weeks later saw that sentiment shredded to pieces.

Sure, Martin may have liked spending time with Tim, but Tim knew how much Martin valued his own free time. And yet there he was every time Tim so much as implied he’d be going out, sticking by Tim’s side and keeping a sharp eye out for anything out of place. It was cute and endearing and all, but didn’t the man get bored of coming up with nothing time and time again? But, well, it was fine. Martin may have been stubborn, but he’d get tired of it all soon enough.

Or, he _would_ have if things had gone differently.

They’d been back in the area that Paul McKenzie in before he’d vanished. Or, rather, the last place Jon had been able to See him before he went missing. It was a neighborhood in Haringey, a bit of a hike from Martin and Tim’s flat. They’d been there three times before. It had been downright peaceful.

And then there was a door.

Tim didn’t notice it at first, not really. In fact, he and Martin had walked right past the damn thing. It looked like it was meant to be there, this yellow door standing in the middle of an alleyway. Tim’s eyes had slid over it.

And then in a rush he realized how _wrong_ it was to think that.

“Oh fuck.”

“What?” Martin said in a powerful whisper. “What is it?”

And suddenly Tim had a decision to make. He could lie, tell Martin that it was nothing, it was fine, just a rock in his shoe, he’d forgotten to buy something at the shop—anything to get them to keep walking and not stick around. Sure, Tim would probably lose whatever the hell this was, but that would be worth it if it meant keeping Martin safe.

But that would mean lying to Martin. That would mean being dishonest to his face. That would mean saying he didn’t trust Martin enough with the truth. And Tim couldn’t do that.

“A door,” Tim said, hushed. “It’s not—something about it is _wrong.”_

“What? Where? Wrong how?”

Tim kept his eyes on Martin as he pointed at the yellow door. He watched as Martin followed the line of his finger, as he stared at the door. At first, Martin looked mildly confused, like he wasn’t sure what was wrong. Then he blinked once, twice, shook his head. His head jerked back and then he leaned forward squinting.

“That’s so _weird.”_

Tim couldn’t help but smile, small as it was. “Yeah, it’s like your eyes just wanna slide right over it.”

“It feels like, like…” Martin grappled to find the words he wanted for a moment. “It feels the same way sand does when it slips through your fingers but it’s with your brain.”

Tim snorted. Martin whipped his head around to glare at him. Tim held his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, just—that was very descriptive. Almost poetic of you.”

_“Tim.”_

“I crack jokes when I’m nervous, you _know_ I do.”

Martin ignored him and looked back towards the door. “So… now what?”

A good question. Tim mulled it over for a minute, keeping his eyes on the door as best he could. “I mean, normally I’d probably go up and look it over. Maybe knock on it.”

_“Excuse me?”_

Tim shrugged. “Standing here isn’t going to do anything. An active approach is better than none.”

“You can’t just waltz up and start pounding on some weird—some weird mind-bending door,” Martin hissed. “That’s just—that’s—”

“Don’t worry, that’s a last resort,” Tim assured him. “I don’t actually like getting hurt, you know. For now I’m just… gonna take a closer look. Stay here and watch my back?”

It was a poor, thinly-veiled attempt at keeping Martin further away from any chance of immediate danger, and judging by the look Martin cast at him he’d obviously realized that. Still, Martin gave a quick, sharp nod. “Fine. Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Tim flashed him a winning smile. “Promise.”

Tim took in a deep breath before stalking forward. He reached out with his senses; he could hear the hum of life and electricity that seemed to be the baseline thrum of the city, the slightest crunch of pavement beneath his feet, the quickened pace of his and Martin’s hearts. He could smell the stench of petrol and grime and sweat that clung to the alleyway like a fog.

The door didn’t sound like anything. Didn’t smell like anything. At least, not yet.

Tim paused when he was just short of two meters away from it. By all rights, it looked like a normal, disgustingly yellow door, save for the fact that it almost hurt to look at and stood perfectly upright with no supports in the middle of an alleyway. The edges of it were hazy, almost in the same way a mirage was. Tim didn’t think it was a good idea to try and touch it, even though something in him wanted to. He’d been compelled enough times to know what it felt like and how to shake the feeling. Or, at least, he could shake it well enough for his purposes.

“Okay,” he said, loud enough for Martin to hear him. “I think I’m going to—”

With a long, head-splitting creak, the door swung open, casual as could be. Tim didn’t have time to process what was inside before something was coming _out._

It was wrong wrong _wrong_ in a way that made Tim flinch away from it violently. Something about it made Tim think _human_ but it couldn’t have been, not with its body twisted and bent into something so grotesque and psychedelic. Its eyes—or, the things where eyes would normally be—were a writhing cacophony of colors, its hands long, its fingers longer and razor sharp, Tim just _knew_ it.

It was nothing like Tim had ever seen before. It was nothing Tim had wanted to see, not before and certainly not now or in the future. Yet there it stood.

Tim vaguely registered Martin’s scream as the thing _moved._ The sound was enough to send Tim back-pedaling as a too-long hand swiped through the air where Tim had once stood. Its movement had been clumsy, leaving it off-balance. A window.

He could have ran. Should have ran. But Martin was here. Martin could get _hurt._

Tim didn’t hesitate. With a roar, he transformed.

He felt his bones shift and snap into place, felt his body grow heavy with fur, rebalanced with his new center of gravity. The world snapped into focus, different and familiar all at once. The thing was still taller than him, but not by nearly as much now. Its head—the closest thing it had to one, at least—was fixed in Tim’s direction.

With a snarl, Tim lunged.

The thing tried to step out of his way, but it wasn’t quick enough, Tim raking his claws through its—its side? The sensation was utterly alien, like he was ripping through some combination of wet paper and brittle bone and static. It made Tim’s teeth ache.

The thing recoiled, some sort of gaping maw opening beneath its eyes. It let out a sound that made Tim’s ears ring, but that didn’t stop him from clawing at it again before darting back. Viscous crimson and silver liquid oozed from where Tim had struck it. It lashed out with both hands, haphazard and blindingly fast. Tim tried to twist out of the way, but he knew he’d failed when pain ripped through his shoulder, blazing hot and burning cold and making him so dizzy that he felt nauseous. A noise, sharp and hurt, bubbled out from his throat as he scrambled further back. He distantly heard Martin scream his name from behind him. Tim did his best to keep himself between that sound and the monster before him.

The thing stared at Tim with its fucked up eyes, its visage shifting and flickering. It hurt to look at, only made Tim’s dizziness worse, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t, not when there was the chance it might move to attack again.

They stayed there, frozen in that moment for far too long. The thing moved, body undulating and contorting, and Tim tensed, a growl in his throat. It didn’t attack, though. Instead, it scurried back to the yellow door that still hung wide open and threw itself back inside. Long fingers curled against the door and closed it with a sharp screech and dull slam. And then, in the next moment, the door was gone.

Just like that, it was over.

Tim could feel his chest heaving as he breathed hard, the pain in his shoulder still throbbing even through the adrenaline. The thing was gone, had ran away. Tim was hurt, but he was fine. Martin was okay. It was okay.

It wasn’t, though. But thinking that wouldn’t help Tim calm down right now.

Behind him, soft and concerned, he heard, “Tim?”

Tim slowly swung his head around. Martin stared up at him with big eyes, stinking of worry and fear and his heart beating too fast in Tim’s ears. 

Tim closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath.

“A-are you okay?” Martin asked, still hushed. “It—it hurt you.”

Tim dipped his head in acknowledgement. Yes, he was okay. Yes, he was hurt. But Martin wasn’t hurt. That was what mattered. Tim just had to focus on that.

Another deep breath. Tim gave a shudder of anxiety as he forced himself to shift back.

The wound hurt so much worse in this form, without the protection that being more monstrous granted him. It stung and ached and Tim _knew_ it would have been so much worse if he’d taken it while he was like this, while he was something closer to human. He didn’t think he would have died outright but, well, it was hard to judge those kinds of things. That didn’t stop him from whimpering at the pain, no matter how hard he tried to choke the sound down.

A warm handed landed on his shoulder, the uninjured one. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. You hear me, Tim? You’re going to be okay.”

Tim just breathed in through his teeth and tucked himself against Martin, pressed his face against the fabric of Martin’s jumper. Voice muffled, he managed to get out, “I know. Got you, right?”

Martin let out a laugh, watery but real. “Yeah, you do. Hospital?”

Tim didn’t pull back as he shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Gotta wrap it. It’ll heal.”

He felt more than saw Martin nod. One of Martin’s hands began to rub at his back. “This will be a hell of a thing to explain to the cabbie.”

Tim’s shoulder hurt as he laughed, but that was okay. It was going to be okay.

The fact that it may not have been okay, that they had come so close to being _not okay,_ didn’t stop nagging at Tim’s brain.

* * *

Tim inhaled sharply through gritted teeth as Martin cleaned the gaping slash in his shoulder. Martin hissed out an apology in response, pulling the wet rag away from Tim. It was stained red with the blood Martin had already wiped away.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Tim hurried to reassure him, words more breathy than he would have liked. “Just hurts a bit, is all.”

“That’s not as comforting to me as you think it is,” Martin informed him. “You being in pain isn’t  _ fine _ to me.”

Tim couldn’t help but smile even as the pain in his shoulder flared up again, fondness and affection swelling in his chest. “I know. I guess I mean that it  _ will _ be fine. After all, I have a rather dashing nurse tending to my wounds.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Figures. Only  _ you _ would joke around while bleeding out.”

Tim wanted to protest that he hadn’t been joking, that Martin  _ was _ dashing and that Tim flirting with Martin was always at  _ least _ half-serious. But it wasn’t the time for that, so instead he said, “I’m hardly bleeding out. And besides, you’re going to bandage me up soon. I’ll be good to go within the week, just you wait and see.”

“I always forget that you heal stupidly fast,” Martin muttered. “And then you say something like that about an injury that would have killed most people.”

“Yeah, that one especially would have been bad. It had some kind of weird, messed-up magic going on with it that I don’t think most people without some kind of protection would have survived. One of the perks of being a werewolf, I guess; we come with that built-in.”

Martin huffed out a little laugh. He didn’t say anything more as he set the rag down and picked up the gauze and tape. Tim closed his eyes as he felt Martin gently prod his shoulder around the aching wound. He resisted leaning into the touch.

“You’re good at this,” he mumbled.

He heard Martin hum. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“You’re good to me.”

Martin’s touches paused, just for a moment, before continuing. He just hummed again, nondescript but comforting all the same. Then, “Alright, I’m done. Now come on and get up so you can actually get some sleep in your bed.”

Tim opened his eyes again and looked at his shoulder. Martin had, as usual, covered up the wound with skill bordering on professional. “Bed… yeah, that sounds nice. Help me?”

Martin rolled his eyes again, but he still helped Tim up and let Tim lean heavily on him as Tim walked to his room. When they got there, Tim dumped himself onto the covers with a groan. His shoulder protested the sudden movement even as the rest of his body sunk into the mattress and his eyelids closed once more.

“Tired?” Martin asked.

“Gods, I’m exhausted.”

“Getting stabbed does that to you, I guess,” Martin teased. Tim knew the exact smile he’d see on Martin’s face if he bothered to look.

“Better me than you,” Tim mumbled. It was quiet enough that he wasn’t sure if Martin had heard.

Silence hung between them before Martin sighed. “Sleep well, Tim. I hope you feel better soon.”

Tim was asleep before he heard Martin close the door.

* * *

“What do you mean I’m not coming?”

Tim crossed his arms. “I mean you’re not coming. I’m going to go and check some stuff out by myself.”

“You’re—” Martin stopped himself and inhaled sharply through his nose. “You  _ cannot _ be serious.”

“’Fraid I am,” Tim said, keeping his voice flat and firm. “It’s gotten to the point where it’s—”

“I swear to god that if you say  _ dangerous, _ I will—”

“But it  _ is,” _ Tim insisted. “Look, you’ve helped a lot, honest, but now it’s gotten to the point where I can’t in good conscience ask you to keep… being a part of this. Not when we have some… weird fae-adjacent monster on the loose.”

“You’re not  _ asking _ me, you’re stopping me,” Martin snapped. “It hasn’t even been a  _ week _ since you got hurt and you’re already charging back out again.  _ Without  _ help.”

“I healed up just fine,” Tim pointed out. Trying to lighten the mood, he added, “You helped with that. Bandaged me up really well.”

That comment seemed to have the opposite of the effect that Tim had been going for. “If I’m so  _ helpful, _ I—”

“No. You’re not coming and that’s final. I’m not arguing over this.”

Martin looked ready to scream. That was fine though. Tim would rather Martin be furious with him than in danger. “So that’s it, then? I don’t get any say in what you’re doing, I don’t get to make my own decisions? You just know best?”

“I’m not—” Tim cut himself off. He sighed. “I’m not saying that I do, but I  _ do _ know more about this stuff than you do, okay? And whatever this is, it’s dangerous enough that I think it’s a bad idea for us to both go hunting after it. Maybe we can—I don’t know, we can figure out other stuff to research together, look into it. But for this, right now? I want to go alone.”

“… Fine.  _ Fine.” _ Martin all but spat out. “Go on then, without your stupid liability.”

Tim flinched back. “You’re, you’re not—”

It was Martin’s turn to sigh, though none of the tension in his body dissipated. “I know. Just… feels like it.”

“I…” Tim swallowed. “I’ll be back in a few hours, okay? Before dinner at the latest.”

Martin didn’t look at him as he said, “Fine.”

Tim wanted to say something, anything to ease this strain. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Instead, he nodded and quickly made his way out the door. 

What mattered was that Martin was safe. So long as he was okay, Tim would be, too, regardless of what happened.

It would be okay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin POV time!

Martin rarely got well and truly upset. It just wasn’t really in his nature to get properly angry at things.

That said, Martin was  _ furious. _

“I’m not some kind of damsel in distress,” Martin muttered viciously under his breath as he went downstairs to collect the mail. “What, he thinks he can just rush off and leave me here wondering if he’s been killed or  _ worse _ by some monster? Like I wouldn’t  _ care?” _

Martin jammed his mail key into the lock with a bit too much force as he opened the P.O. box and grabbed the collection of envelopes inside. He slammed the thing shut and locked it again before stalking back upstairs in a snit.

“I don’t have fancy werewolf powers or magic or, or anything else like that, but that doesn’t mean I’m  _ useless,” _ Martin hissed out as he stepped back inside of his flat. He kicked the door closed with his foot and started flipping through the mail while he seethed. Bill, flyer, weird advertisement that would be going in the bin, bill—

A letter. Addressed to Martin. The address was written in scrawled handwriting. The ink was rich, a dark blue.

Martin tore it open, fished out the letter inside, and began to read.

* * *

Martin could admit that this may not have been his most well thought out plan. In fact, he was willing to classify it as downright  _ idiotic. _ But then, what was more foolish, to reject the invitation of a monster, or to accept it? Surely rejecting the summons of a powerful being would come with consequences, but did Martin truly believe that was worse than willingly walking into the den of a lion?

If the fact that Martin was standing at the threshold of said monster’s home was anything to go by, then yes, yes he did.

The exterior of the house was nice enough—and it  _ was _ a house, not a flat. How anyone could afford a townhouse in central London, Martin didn’t know. Maybe the monster had housemates.

Martin almost laughed at the thought. Would have if he weren’t so apprehensive. Yeah, sure, like Simon Fairchild would have  _ housemates. _

Granted, Martin didn't actually know too much about Fairchild, save for the fact that he was old, old in the way that mundane people  _ weren't, _ and powerful. What form that power took Martin was shaky on, but it must be formidable; supernatural beings with a reputation for being  _ dangerous _ tended to disappear or die. That was, unless, they were stronger than whatever saw fit to go after them.

So. No pressure or anything.

Martin inhaled deeply through his nose. He could hear his heart beating, a heavy, fluttering drum that pounded in his ears. He exhaled.

Breathe in. Ba-dump, ba-dump. Breathe out.

Martin raised a hand and knocked on the door.

Time seemed to slow down after Martin's hand fell to his side, though his brain apparently hadn't gotten the memo. Instead, his mind kicked into overdrive as his anxiety spiked. What if he'd come at a bad time? What if it was a joke, a prank someone was pulling on him and Fairchild hadn't been the one to send the letter? What if Martin had knocked on the  _ wrong door, _ even after triple-checking? What if—

Martin's breath caught at the telltale sound of the doorknob being turned. He watched, frozen as the door swung open to reveal—

… To reveal a rather normal looking old man. The man's skin was pale, though not in the way a vampire was; too pink for that. A shock of stark white hair sprung from his head, windswept and fluffy. He was smiling, a wide and manic thing that was somewhere between jovial and unsettling. Martin was already opening his mouth, trying to figure out the shape of his apology, when their eyes met and the words died on his tongue.

The man’s— _ monster’s _ eyes were blue, yes, but not a blue that Martin had ever seen before. They were  _ more _ than just the color, somehow. It was as if all the sky had decided to make itself a home in the small space around his pupils. Some part of Martin, terrified and in awe, was sure that he would fall into that blue if he wasn’t careful.

Martin wrenched his gaze away, instead focusing on the bridge of Fairchild’s nose. Because it  _ had _ to be Fairchild, didn’t it? Martin would throw away all of his tea if it wasn’t.

“Um, mister Fairchild?” Martin’s voice came out strained and nervous but, well, it didn’t hurt to try and be polite.

“Oh, aren’t you just a  _ delight?” _ Fairchild all but  _ cooed. _ “Please, call me Simon.  _ Mister Fairchild, _ oh my.”

Martin had no idea how to react to that, so he didn’t. “I’m, I’m here to see you? I mean, I got a letter that said it’s from you to meet you here and—”

“Yes, yes, you’re right on time.” Fairchild was still grinning like a complete loon. “I was just about to sit down and make myself some tea. Won’t you join me?”

Everything in Martin was screaming at him to politely decline and then sprint back home. “Yes. O-of course. That would be—that would be lovely.”

Fairchild’s grin somehow, impossibly, widened. His teeth were blindingly white. “Then what are you waiting for? Come in.”

Martin took in a deep breath as discreetly as he could and crossed the threshold.

The inside of the house was, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly,  _ not _ filled with all manner of unspeakable horrors. In fact, it all looked rather normal. Not disturbingly so, not the kind of normal that things pretended to be, where everything was perfect without a single hair out of place. No, this was a very human kind of normal. There were breathtaking paintings on the walls, each depicting the sky with loving strokes. The floor was dark and wooden and polished, the furniture bright and almost fun. Books with well-worn spines rested on shelves and an ancient-looking grandfather clock stood proudly against the wall.

It looked, for all intents and purposes, like the home of a somewhat-eccentric, wealthy old man.

“This way, now.” Fairchild ushered Martin further in and towards a small, circular table. “Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back with our tea.”

Something about the way he said that made Martin immediately plop down into a chair as shivers ran down his spine. He sat there and listened to the sound of Fairchild bustling away in the kitchen. Martin’s body itched to get up and help him. He ruthlessly shoved that impulse down.

When Fairchild came back, it was with a tray that held a blue willow teapot and two beautiful teacups that Martin was sure cost more than half of his rent, along with a porcelain creamer and a small bowl of sugar cubes. Fairchild put the tray on the table and took a seat opposite of Martin.

When Fairchild poured the tea into one of the teacups and held it out, Martin took it from him without complaint.

“There we are,” Fairchild drawled, a song-like quality in his cheery voice. “Much better to have these kinds of chats over tea, don’t you agree?”

Martin thought that just about any conversation could be made more pleasant with tea, but some part of him still recoiled as he mumbled his agreement. He didn’t dare drink from his cup.

“I’ll admit, it’s been some time since I’ve had company over for tea. At least, someone as pleasant as you.” Fairchild chuckled like it was some kind of joke. Martin wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh with him. He didn’t. “But of course, you didn’t come  _ just _ to see me, now did you?”

Martin hoped his pause wasn’t too obvious. “I—you said that you had information? Regarding the, the monster.”

“And indeed I do! What would you like to know about?”

Okay. Fuck. Martin had read enough storybooks and talked to Tim about stuff like this enough to know that nothing came for free. There was always something, always a sacrifice, always a  _ trade. _ He couldn’t just take setting the terms.

Alright. He could do this.

“What, what do you want? I mean, in exchange for your help,” Martin hurried to explain.

For a moment, everything was  _ wrong. _ Martin’s lungs felt empty and all at once the air felt both too thick and too thin to breathe properly. Fairchild’s eyes swirled, a vortex of never-ending blue, the sky threatening to spill out of them and plunge them into an eternal freefall that Martin knew he would never escape.

And then, just as suddenly, Fairchild threw his head back and laughed. No,  _ guffawed. _ Martin’s lungs heaved as he caught his breath.

What the  _ fuck. _

“My apologies,” Fairchild managed between chuckles. “You just looked so very serious and  _ earnest. _ It was smart of you, of course. But really, you must work on your expressions.”

Martin didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say it without sounding like he was panting for breath. He just nodded.

“As for the cost? Nothing you weren’t already doing yourself. This… creature that you and your compatriot have been tracking down has caused quite the stir, and not in a good way. I myself am one of the many who would rather see it gone. And so, I’m here to offer you what little information I have on it in the hopes you’re able to get rid of it.”

“O-oh. O-okay.” Martin begged his heart to stop  _ pounding. _ “That’s, that’s very generous of you. Thank you. For sharing the information you have.”

“But of course! And do stop worrying about being so polite. I don’t bite. Not my style, really.”

That did nothing to reassure Martin. “Right.” When Fairchild stared at him, somehow both indulgent and expecting, Martin quickly added, “Um, so, do you know what it is?” That was a simple enough question, wasn’t it?

“I have some guesses, but nothing concrete. Likely fae, but you and your werewolf probably figured that out already.”

… Apparently it hadn’t been simple enough.

“Oh. Uh. Right.” A question. He needed another question, because Fairchild seemed to  _ love _ whatever the hell this was. “Do you know… what happens to the people that it takes?”

Fairchild’s eyes  _ danced. _ “Now  _ there’s _ a question. No, I don’t. Not really, anyway.”

Martin clenched his jaw and choked down the distressed sound that threatened to bubble out of his throat. This had been a mistake. He’d come here foolishly hoping for answers and he would have nothing to show for it. Fuck, he should have just stayed home—

“But I know someone who may.”

Martin came back to himself all at once, could feel his body give a small jerk. “Y-you do?”

Fairchild let out a long hum. “Yes, I do. Not two days ago, there were reports of a woman seen stumbling out of a yellow door that shouldn’t have been there. She was weak and disorientated and seemed to be on the cusp of madness. Before then, she had been reported missing just under two weeks prior. Gone without a trace. I asked—ah, shall we call him a  _ friend _ of mine—to look into it. Surprisingly, he came up with nothing. He’s still in a state about it, throwing a massive tantrum over something eluding his Sight.” Fairchild chuckled to himself. “The woman—she’s expected to make a full recovery, actually. In a mundane hospital, last I checked. The nurses say she’s hallucinating, misremembering, confused. They may be right, but I doubt that’s the only truth to the matter.”

A victim. A victim that had  _ escaped. _ One that seemed to have been taken four weeks after Lydia Halligan had first disappeared. Martin would never want to kiss Fairchild, but he thought this was the closest he’d ever get to that emotion. “Is she—I mean, do you—is—”

Martin’s mouth snapped shut as Fairchild held up a hand. Fairchild took a sip of his tea. “Her name is Helen Richardson. She’s currently in Saint Thomas' Hospital. I trust you and your partner can devise a reason to be allowed to see her.”

Despite it all, Martin felt his face warm ever so slightly at how Fairchild said ‘your partner.’ “Y-yeah, we will. Should we be expecting to see anyone there? Maybe, maybe your friend?”

Fairchild laughed again. “Oh goodness, no. He’d never stoop to actually  _ asking _ the poor thing what happened. That’d be too much like admitting defeat. No, he’s going to be bashing his head against wall after wall trying to work his magic. Meanwhile,  _ I’ll _ be taking steps to solve this problem. Through you.”

Well. If Fairchild wanted to act all smug about asking for help and then stealing the credit, Martin certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it. “Makes sense. Was there… anything else? Or…”

Fairchild seemed to consider for a moment. “No, I do believe that is everything I currently know about the situation at hand. All that’s left now is to finish the tea.” He smiled, pleasant as can be and razor sharp.

With shaking hands, Martin brought the cup of tea to his lips and sipped.

… Huh. Normal tea. Well,  _ very _ good tea, actually. A kind of rooibos? And, most importantly, not some horrific, eldritch monster brew.

Fairchild laughed at Martin’s shocked face. Martin hid behind his cup of tea and took another sip.

* * *

Martin hopped off the bus, still reeling somewhat from having tea with Fairchild. The man was  _ terrifying, _ that was for sure, but he’d been… interesting. If Martin were a braver person, he might have even called it  _ fun. _ Fairchild was an energetic conversationalist and Martin had more than once found himself drawn into whatever story Fairchild had been regaling him with, had even coming close to smiling once or twice. It had mostly been Fairchild recounting an interaction with some of his…  _ friends _ (the emphasis Fairchild always put on the word left little doubt about whether or not those people were actually his friends) and, if Martin hadn’t known better, he would have said that it was a perfectly normal conversation.

Of course, if Martin hadn’t known better, he wouldn’t have been so on edge the entire time.

Once they’d finished the pot of tea, Fairchild had shown Martin to the door and wished him luck. Had said that Martin was welcome to come back  _ any _ time he’d like. Martin had been too bewildered by the accompanying wink to do much of anything but sputter as Fairchild closed the door.

So. There had been that. Now he just had to talk to Tim.

Right. Here was to hoping  _ that _ wouldn’t be a trainwreck.

Martin quickly made his way back home. When he went to unlock the door to the flat, he found it was already open. Stepping inside, he saw Tim hunched over the coffee table, a mess of papers strewn across it. He was utterly absorbed in whatever it was he was doing.

Martin cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Tim’s head snapped up. A smile bloomed on his face. Something about it almost looked like he was relieved. “Martin, hey. I was just about to text you. I’m thinking takeout tonight. Maybe that Indian place? The one on Brixton?”

Oh. That was one of Martin’s favorite restaurants to order from. “Um, sure? Yeah, sounds good.”

“Usual order?”

“Yes please.”

Tim called up the restaurant and Martin took a seat next to him. The papers on the coffee table consisted of news reports and scribbled notes and post-its that covered almost the whole surface. Martin couldn’t manage to read any of the words.

“Alright, it’ll be on it’s way soon,” Tim cheerily announced. Martin didn’t jump at his voice, but it was a near thing. “What do you wanna do in the meantime?”

He really couldn’t ask for a better opening than that. Martin breathed in as deeply as he could before taking the plunge. “We, we need to talk.”

Tim’s smile didn’t slip, but it was suddenly very strained. “Oh. Hah, okay. I—yeah, that makes sense. I figured that we would, you know? Everything has been—”

Suddenly Tim ordering from Martin’s favorite place made a lot more sense. “No—I mean, we should, yeah, but this is… something else.”

Tim’s smile fell, strain and all, to blink at Martin. “Oh. Okay. What is it then?”

Right. Martin had to tell him. Fuck. “I got some information on that case today. About the monster.”

“Wait, really? How? You didn’t try to find it again, did you? Martin—”

“No, I didn’t. I, uh, talked to someone who had information about it.”

“… Who? Jon?”

“Um, no. It was, ah, Simon Fairchild?”

Tim froze. “What?”

“The person I talked to. It was—”

Tim’s arm shot out, his hand closing around Martin’s shoulder. His grip was tight, verging on uncomfortable. “Martin. Please tell me you did  _ not _ go and talk to  _ Simon Fairchild _ alone without telling anyone what you were doing.”

Martin let out a laugh, hollow and breathless. “Well, I could, but I don’t like lying to you.”

_ “Martin.” _ Oh, Tim looked properly upset now.

“Look, it was fine. We had tea and he gave me some helpful information—”

“That’s not the  _ point _ Martin.” Tim’s eyes were ablaze, his face twisted into a glower. “You fucking—you just went and—why didn’t you  _ say anything?” _

“Because you would have told me to not go and tried to stop me, wouldn’t you?”

“Damn right I would have!” Tim was shouting. Martin forced himself not to flinch. “Do you have  _ any _ idea how  _ dangerous _ he is? What he could have  _ done _ to you? Why the hell did you even go and track him down?”

“I didn’t! He sent me a letter, asked me to join him for tea. What was I supposed to do, say  _ no?” _

_ “Yes!” _

Martin let out a wordless, frustrated sound. “So I should have just handed this off to you, then? Rejected his invite and  _ you _ would have gone by yourself with a quick ‘don’t worry Martin!  _ I _ can take care of myself!’ and then have me sit here wondering if you’ll come back alright?”

“Oh  _ please, _ like what you did was any better. Besides, I wouldn’t have gone in the first place.”

“But—but  _ why? _ He had information!”

Tim looked away for a moment. “Fairchild and I don’t… Look, he knows I’m not his biggest fan and he  _ certainly _ isn’t mine. But I must be the closest thing he’s got to a detective that isn’t drowning in politics. Bastard must be desperate.”

“If he’s desperate, isn’t that all the more reason to—”

“No, Martin, it’s  _ not. _ I can’t—I thought we agreed you’d stay out of this—”

“I didn’t agree to  _ anything, _ you  _ commanded _ me to—”

“This is too  _ dangerous _ for you to just—”

“And I’m telling you I can handle myself!”

“I know you can, I—”

“Then why won’t you let me  _ help, _ Tim?” Martin was breathing hard, towering over Tim. He didn’t remember standing up. “You just keep trying to push me away and lock me up here so I stay safe while you’re facing down monsters, and I’m  _ sick _ of it! Why won’t you let me be there for you?”

“I-I do—”

“No, you don’t. You’ll tell me this and that and let me pick up the pieces, but every time I try to get close you just—” Martin swallowed down the burning lump in his throat. “I don’t know why you want to go at everything alone. I can leave, if that’s what you want. If that would be easier for you than—”

“No, Martin, never.” Tim was standing now too. His hands hovered between the two of them, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. “I want you here, I just—I worry and I…”

“… I worry too, Tim. Of course I do.” Martin looked down at his feet. Away from Tim’s pleading eyes. “That’s not unique to you, you know. And I get it, I do, but I need to—I can make my own decisions.”

“I know, I just…”

“Just  _ what, _ Tim? Think I’m too weak? Useless? Fragile? Because I swear to god if you say anything—”

“I love you. And I am so, so afraid of losing you.”

The world seemed to grind to a halt.

Martin looked up. “You, you what?”

A storm of emotions raged across Tim’s face, too many for Martin to pick out properly. “I. I care about you. So much. More than I can say. And I can’t—I don’t want you to ever be hurt or feel afraid or, or anything like that. And what I do—what I  _ am _ —it’s part of something scary and dangerous and I… I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

“You—” Martin’s voice was hoarse and ragged. He took in a breath. “You can’t just  _ say _ something like that and expect everything to be alright, Tim.”

“I know.” And  _ oh, _ Martin wanted to reach out, hold Tim’s face in his hands until the heartbreak left his eyes, until the sadness had drained from him. “I know that doesn’t make it right or fix anything. You’re right. It’s not an excuse.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Martin whispered.

Tim had closed his eyes, almost as though he were in pain. Martin wouldn’t be surprised if he actually was. And this was—it was so much. There was a  _ lot _ here and maybe it would be smart to take a step back. To get some space and reassess the situation somewhere he had room to think. It would probably be safer that way.

But, well. When had that gotten him anywhere?

Instead, Martin summoned up what courage he had and bumped the back of his hand against Tim’s. Tim’s eyes opened and he watched, almost enraptured, as Martin wove their fingers together.

“For what it’s worth,” Martin murmured, “I love you, too.”

The smile on Tim’s face, radiant and terrified and hopeful all at once, was the most beautiful one Martin had ever seen.

* * *

They held hands on the way to the hospital. They started as they walked down the street towards the station and continued to do so while riding the tube. Martin worried his palms were getting too sweaty, but Tim never said anything about it. Just occasionally squeezed Martin’s hand with his own like a reminder. Martin squeezed back every time.

There was something there between them. Something they’d yet to properly name—something they  _ couldn’t _ properly name, not until they’d talked about it. And they would. But for now, there were more urgent matters. Martin wished there weren’t.

They only let go of each other’s hands once they were a block away from Saint Thomas’. Martin immediately missed it.

He’d been worried about getting in; Martin knew better than most how strict nurses could be about people seeing patients.

Apparently, Tim had that covered.

“Usually I’ll pay Jon to… look into someone,” Tim had said on the tube. “See if there’s anyone with more self-preservation than morals, and if they’ve done something. Nothing illegal, but something they wouldn’t want their work or friends to know, you know?”

“Why Tim, that almost sounds like blackmail.”

Tim had shrugged, moving his and Martin’s interlocked hands with the motion. “A bit. This time, though, we hopefully won’t need any of that. It’s not  _ that _ hard to get into a hospital so long as you act like you’re supposed to be there.”

And Tim was right.

Martin attributed some of it to luck, as the first woman on staff at Saint Thomas’ they ran into seemed to have something of a bleeding heart. When she heard Tim tell her the story of how he and Martin had heard something  _ awful _ had happened to their poor coworker, Helen Richardson, the woman had been more than happy to take them to Helen’s room. According to the nurse, Helen hadn’t had a visitor yet. Martin felt a stab of pity for her.

“Here we are,” the nurse said, stopping outside of one of the many doors in the hospital. “She’s in here. She’s not in the best of conditions, so we’re going to be keeping visits short; no more than thirty minutes, alright?”

Tim nodded. “Of course. We just want to check in with her, you know? Make sure she’s alright.”

The nurse smiled warmly. “Very kind of you boys. I’ll be back soon. If anything goes wrong, just hit the nurse call button, okay?”

“Understood.” Tim gave a mock salute.

The nurse gave them one last smile before she turned and bustled off, no doubt busy with other things. And just like that, they had successfully infiltrated a hospital.

“I can’t believe it was  _ that _ easy,” Martin admitted. 

“Like I said, just act like you belong and you can get in anywhere. Now come on, we only have a little bit of time. Better make it count.”

On Martin’s nod, Tim opened the door and the two of them stepped inside.

The woman, Helen, looked awful. She was hunched in on herself, her face gaunt and her eyes staring off intently into nothing. She only moved when the door creaked, flinching with her whole body. Martin desperately wanted to feed her and make her a cup of tea.

“Hi, Miss Richardson?” Tim said, upbeat yet gentle. He closed the door behind them. “How are you?”

Helen’s eyes darted frantically between the two of them. “Who are you?”

“I’m Tim. This is my partner, Martin. We’re here to help, if we can.”

Martin gave a small smile and friendly little wave. Helen did not seem reassured.

“What do you want?” She didn’t seem to have the energy to snap at them, but it was a near thing.

“Like I said, we’re here to help.” Tim took a step into the room, towards Helen. “We’d just like to ask a few questions.”

_ “No,” _ Helen hissed. “You’re—I’m not  _ crazy. _ I don’t care who sent you to try and force the ‘truth’ out of me, but I’m not—I’m not—”

“We know, Miss Richardson. That’s why—”

“Get back!”

Tim stopped midstep. He took a step back.

Helen’s eyes were wild and panicked, hand held up against her heaving chest and clutching the sheets of the hospital bed. Anger was bleeding in around the edges of her face. Everything about the scene was uncannily familiar. Martin hated it, hated being in any situation like this, but he had enough experience that he knew how to navigate it.

“Helen? I’m sorry, I know that you don’t want anyone—especially strangers—barging in like this,” Martin said. He could feel himself slipping into the tone he used whenever he used to visit his mum in the hospital or at the home. “We heard that something happened to you. That something that hurt you… it hurt  _ us, _ too.”

Helen went rigid. Despite that, Martin was sure her guard had dropped, just a bit. “What do you mean?”

Martin swallowed. “The, the monster. The one with the long,  _ really _ long hands. And the colors and the laugh and the yellow door. It… We saw it. And it’s taken other people. We want to  _ stop _ it, but you’re the only person we know who’s been taken and come back. So… any information you have on it would be—we would be happy to have it.”

Helen stared at him, eyes still wild and afraid. Her breathing wasn’t as ragged, though, her shoulders having lost some of their tension. Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Thank you,” Martin said, trying to make his voice sound as ardent and grateful as possible. “This means a lot to us. Can you—what can you tell us about it? Do you know what it is?”

Softly, so quietly and indistinct that Martin could barely make it out, she said, “I think his name was Michael Shelley.”

Oh god, that was the most solid piece of information they’d gotten about the damn thing yet. They were actually making  _ progress. _

Keeping the creeping excitement out of his voice, Martin gently asked, “May I ask how you know that?”

Helen looked down at her hands. She bit her lip and began playing with her fingers. “I don’t—I think he told me? But it wasn’t… normal. He didn’t say it, but he told me. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

That didn’t make any sense, but Martin nodded like it did. “Okay, I see. Do you know  _ why _ he might have told you?”

“I, I think… I think he wants help.”

“What?” Martin blurted out.

“He’s—I was scared. While I was  _ there, _ I was the most terrified I’d ever been.” Helen’s shoulders were hunching up again. “Nothing made sense and I felt like I was going mad. I  _ was _ going mad. And it  _ hurt. _ And he was there; he stayed with me. He brought me in but he never—he never  _ did _ anything except try to, to  _ talk _ in that way he did.” A deep, ragged breath. “He was afraid. And, and confused. I don’t—it couldn’t have been just me. There was too much and it was all  _ wrong.” _

“You could feel some of his emotions?” Martin asked, doing his best to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

Helen nodded, just a quick dip of her chin. “And he would, he would beg, I think? I can’t—the way he communicated was—I can’t describe it. But he was desperate and afraid and… alone? And I could  _ feel _ it even before he told me.”

Martin had no idea what to say to that. What to  _ ask _ about that to get more information. He glanced at Tim, who just offered him a minute shrug.  _ Right. Just keep on getting more information, I guess. _

“Can I ask how you escaped?” Martin asked. “And if there were others you saw?”

And Helen began to laugh. It was hoarse and rough and bordering on hysterical. The sound made Martin’s hair stand on end. “I didn’t escape. God, I couldn’t have—there’s no escaping  _ that. _ He just let me go.”

“He  _ what?” _

Helen shook her head, mania tinging the edges of her expression. “He just let me go. Opened a damned door and held out a hand. He didn’t want me to leave. I didn’t care. I ran.” Helen looked back down at her lap. “I don’t know why he decided he was done with me. I’m just glad he did.”

Martin glanced at Tim again. Tim looked utterly bewildered as he stared at Helen, wide-eyed and incredulous. Martin could just tell that his mind was running a mile a minute.

“I’m—I’m glad he did. Let you go, I mean,” Martin said. “I think we have just a few more questions to ask, if that’s okay.”

Helen seemed to chew it over, fidgeting as she kept her eyes cast down. Finally, she met Martin’s gaze again. “You can. But after, don’t—don’t come back. I don’t want to, to—” She cut herself off.

“Of course. We won’t bother you after this. I promise.”

Helen gave a short nod. “Let’s get this over with then. You’ll want to hear about the hallways next then, I suppose.”

“H-hallways?”

The look on Helen’s face told Martin that the answer would be just as ominous as it sounded.

It was.

* * *

“It’s definitely fae, it has to be. I thought it was at first, and the way she described the ‘hallways’? All those colors and losing a sense of self? And the way it keeps using doors? No way it’s not.”

“That would also explain why I was unable to learn anything about him using divination,” Jon said, voice rendered tinny as it came out of the speakers of Tim’s phone. “The fae have all sorts of tricks to achieve such results. But many of the descriptions she gave of the creature in question don’t usually align with that of the fae.”

“Yeah, the whole feeling his emotions thing,” Tim agreed. “No way in hell a fae would ever let something like that fly. Those bastards aren’t exactly known for being an open book. And how she said the hallways were always shifting—”

“Exactly, that kind of glamor being applied to an entire domain, even if it’s done by the fae who owns it—magic of that magnitude wouldn’t be in line with what we already know about it—”

Martin could only really listen as Tim talked to Jon over the phone. He didn’t know half as much as Jon and Tim did about this kind of stuff, so he found himself keeping busy by making tea. At the very least he and Tim could share that right now.

While Martin waited for the kettle to boil, he watched Tim from the kitchen. Tim was pacing and gesturing with his hands as he spoke into the phone. He’d been kind enough to put it on speaker so that Martin could listen in, even if Martin didn’t really have anything to add.

“I haven’t been able to See anything regarding Michael Shelley, even with the name,” Jon was saying as Martin tuned back into the conversation. “It’s like he doesn’t even exist. But there’s  _ something _ there, I can almost See it. That name doesn’t mean  _ nothing, _ but I don’t—”

“Figures,” Tim sighed. “If you can’t see anything about his victims, why would you be able to learn anything about the monster itself? Fuck, it's probably not ever the thing’s actual name, probably stole it. Gods, this is a clusterfuck.”

“I’m trying, Tim.”

Tim smiled, tired but genuine. “I know. I know. Thank you, Jon.”

“Y-you’re welcome. I could try something else, I haven’t exhausted every option yet—”

Something about needing a name sparked an idea in Martin’s mind. It was a silly idea, not really even worth trying. But it was  _ something _ Martin could at least try.

Giving into the whim, Martin took out his phone and opened Facebook. He typed in the name Michael Shelley.

He got multiple results, obviously. That was how Facebook worked. Martin was about to give the whole thing up as the stupid plight it was when his eyes landed on the profile of the fourth Michael Shelley on the list. His profile picture was that of a man with a thin face, nervous grin, and long blond hair. He was listed as living in London. Martin had never seen the man before, but something about him was familiar. Familiar and disarming for no reason Martin could discern. He tapped on the profile.

This Michael Shelley didn’t have a huge number of friends, nor had he made any posts in a few months, but before then he seemed to have posted about once a week. Small snippets of writings, the stray selfie here or there, pictures of buildings and food, and a lot of positive comments on other people’s posts and photos.

It wasn’t too far down that Martin saw a post that gave him pause. It was a selfie of Michael Shelley and someone Martin presumed to be his friend—a pale man with ink black hair and tattoos—smiling at the camera. It was cute, sure, but what really caught Martin’s attention was how familiar the background was. He wouldn’t have recognized it a month ago, but the park that they were in… it looked a  _ lot _ like the Victoria Embankment Gardens.

This felt like something. It  _ had _ to be something.

With renewed vigor, Martin kept scrolling. More and more pieces began to line up.

“Martin?”

Martin jumped, head shooting up to look at Tim. Tim was looking at him curiously. “You good there, Marto?”

“I—yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Actually, come look at this, Tim.”

Tim's face twisted into a gentle, confused expression, but he said, “One sec, Jon,” to the phone and was soon beside Martin, looking over his shoulder. “What are—you fought tooth and nail to be a part of this and now that you are you're on  _ Facebook? _ You don't even—”

“No, look,” Martin quickly scrolled up to the top of the profile. “I just searched for ‘Michael Shelley’ and something about this one struck a chord? I don’t know how to explain it but it feels…”

Tim stared at the screen for a few moments. “Yeah, I get what you’re saying. Like… distantly familiar, but kinda unsettling. I’ve definitely never seen this guy before, not that I can remember.”

“Right! So I kept scrolling back and look, here. He says in this post here that this is one of his favorite places to go, and doesn’t that picture look like—”

Tim’s eyes widened. “Oh my gods, that’s the park. That’s where Lydia Halligan was taken, holy shit.”

Martin found himself nodding, excitement mounting in his chest. “Y-yeah! And look, here, if you look at this, he says he grew up in Haringey and, and here, he complains about getting to work from Hampstead—”

Tim gasped. “He’s got connections to all the places that people have been disappearing from.” Tim brought the phone up to speak into it directly. “Jon, did you hear all that?”

“Y-yes,” Jon sounded a bit breathless. “One, one moment. I need to—there may be some books—I’ll be back in just a moment, I need to check something. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay, talk to you in—and he already hung up.” Tim let out a small huff of laughter. “Hope he finds that book soon.”

Martin hummed his agreement. A quiet pause stretched out between them. Martin cleared his throat. “So, ah, what was that about me wasting time on Facebook?”

“I never said that!” Tim protested. He was smiling. “I was just surprised, you know? I get into it with Jon and when I look up you’re on your phone. On  _ Facebook.” _

Martin rolled his eyes. “I cannot  _ believe _ you’d think that I would willingly go onto Facebook for fun.”

“I’m sorry.” Tim’s arm came up and slowly, like he was waiting for Martin to pull away, draped his arm around Martin’s shoulders. His face was close enough that Martin could count his lashes, if he wanted to. That specific detail shouldn’t have felt nearly as intimate as it did. “Can I make it up to you?” Tim’s breath tickled Martin’s face, warm air against flushed skin.

Not quite trusting his voice, Martin nodded.

Tim leaned in, closing the small amount of space between them until his lips brushed against Martin’s cheek, soft and sweet. He lingered there for a moment, Martin’s heart fit to burst at how warm and lovely it felt to be kissed, to be kissed by Tim in such a tender way. Such a small, simple thing shouldn’t have made Martin want to gasp, but he still found himself stifling a small noise.

They both jumped when the phone rang again. Tim didn’t pull his arm away as he fumbled to answer it with his free hand. Martin was glad for it.

Tim accepted the call. “Jon?”

“He’s  _ both.” _

Tim and Martin exchanged a quick look, Tim looking just as confused as Martin felt. Tim turned back to the phone. “Sorry, what?”

“Well, not  _ both, _ but he’s—Michael Shelley, he’s—this sort of thing has happened before. Or, at least, there are theories about it, I was reading quickly.” Jon was talking quickly, an edge of breathlessness to his voice. “We said it was strange, this monster, that it was obviously fae but there were discrepancies, and you mentioned that it bled red  _ and _ silver, right? Well, he’s fae but not, not  _ completely.” _

Martin’s eyes widened. “Wait, do you mean—”

“He’s fae  _ and _ he’s human,” Jon barreled on, words tumbling out through the speaker. “Or, he used to be human and is something closer to fae  _ now. _ I don’t know  _ how, _ stories about this kind of thing are far and few between—you know how secretive the fae are about everything, I can’t imagine they’d be forthcoming with how to become one. So we have someone who has turned into one, but not… not completely and  _ far _ from perfectly. And I think something must have gone very,  _ very _ wrong.”

* * *

They were going back to Haringey, to the spot where they had first encountered Michael. It had already been a long day, Martin and Tim rushing back to the park and trying to find where Michael had taken some of the pictures on his Facebook page. They hadn’t come up with anything, though, so they’d taken the tube to what they thought would be their next best shot. Somehow, miraculously, they’d managed to snag seats next to one another after two stops. They sat close, legs pressed up against each other. Martin didn’t manage to doze on the way there, stomach too tied up in knots of anxiety for that, but he thought he might have under different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve hunting monsters.

“If we don’t find him today, there’s always tomorrow,” Tim said, cradling Martin’s hand in his and idly running his thumb over the back of Martin’s hand. “We can figure this out. It’ll be okay.”

It sounded more like he was trying to reassure himself than anything else, but Martin still nodded, still murmured his agreement. He let his head loll, gently brought it down to hover over Tim’s shoulder. He finally let it drop when Tim turned to press a kiss to his hair.

“What are we going to do? Once we find him?” Martin asked.

“I talked some more to Jon while you were getting your coat and wallet. He said that we might be able to reason with him, even if Michael is… a little unstable.”

“I think I’d be a bit panicked if I was suddenly a monster, too.”

Martin felt Tim shift a bit, not nearly enough to dislodge him. “No, I mean—he’s probably not  _ mentally _ stable right now, which, yeah, understandable given the circumstances. But Jon thinks that Michael isn’t  _ metaphysically _ stable. And given what we’ve seen, I’m inclined to agree.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The fae… they’re very strange with concepts like identity and self. They definitely  _ have _ those, but they’re… more malleable? Or maybe more real? What they can do with those concepts is a lot more varied and terrifying than anything we could come up with, at least. So having someone with a sense of identity and self that’s then turned into a being without one or more of one would probably be messy. Toss in the fact that things probably didn’t go perfectly and, well. You might end up with something like Michael.”

“You know a lot about the fae.”

“A bit. Enough to know how to deal with them. I tend to stay away from them if I can afford to.”

That made sense to Martin. The fae Tim described certainly sounded less pleasant than storybooks made them out to be. “So what do we do then? If we can reason with him.”

“Jon said to bring him back to his and Georgie’s flat, if we could manage. Georgie is better with stuff like this than Jon is; more witchy, I guess you could say. Better with magic that actively involves people.”

Martin nodded against Tim’s shoulder. “And if we can’t reason with him?”

A pause. “Then we leave. Regroup. Try to think of something else and stay safe. Together.”

Martin squeezed Tim’s hand. Tim squeezed back.

* * *

When they finally arrived in Haringey and made their way to the alley they’d first encountered Michael in, the sun was almost setting. Neither of them had work the next day, thank god for that, but Tim said it would probably be best to not stay out too late. Do a quick search and hop back on the tube before it got properly dark. Before other things started coming out. Martin had agreed.

So there they were, combing through alleyways and streets, looking for any sign of Michael. Martin stayed a step or two behind Tim; even though Tim hadn’t asked, it was obvious that he felt better if he was able to put himself between Martin and whatever unknown things lied in wait ahead of them. And, to be entirely fair, it did make Martin feel just a bit safer; werewolves were stronger, healed faster, and could resist supernatural effects a  _ lot _ better than most mundane folk. So Tim was certainly better equipped to take the lead, even if knowing that made Martin no less worried. 

It was like this, Martin trailing behind Tim ever so slightly, that they walked down another alleyway, indistinguishable from the rest. The sky was darkening and Martin was just about to give up the search for the day when something caught his eye. Martin stopped to look.

To his left was a door.

It sat there, normal as could be. It was a garish yellow, but Martin was sure that was normal. Why would it be odd? People painted their doors strange colors all the time. This was no different.

The only thing truly odd about the door was how much Martin wanted to open it. After all, it wasn’t polite to just go and open doors, was it? That wasn’t right, not without being invited. But the door looked so inviting, like it  _ wanted _ to be opened. And that was strange. Very strange. Enough to make Martin nervous, to make his stomach churn unpleasantly.

It was not strange enough to stop him from grabbing the doorknob with a sweaty palm and turning it, nor was it strange enough to stop him from gently swinging the door open and stepping inside.

By the time he’d taken three steps in, he had realized his mistake too late.

Colors swam before Martin’s eyes, hazy and shifting and never settling into anything he could pinpoint or name, just a barrage of sight and sound and queasiness that nearly knocked him off his feet. He staggered back, turning to find the door he’d stepped in through, but it was impossible to tell how far he’d turned or if he’d even turned at all. There was no door, not that he could see. Static roared in his ears and the walls to either side of him seemed to stretch infinitely in either direction. Every time he turned, he couldn’t tell if he was in one, long never-ending corridor or at a crossroads of hallways or if there were other hallways he could turn into.

He didn’t know where to go or what to  _ do, _ it was all too much too much  _ too much. _

Martin clapped his hands over his eyes, squeezing them shut tight to block out whatever he could. He could still see the fractals and patterns writhing on the back of his eyelids, but it was better. Muted. For now.

It was then that Martin felt something wind around him. Firm and jointed and flexible and  _ sharp, _ they curled around his torso like tubes of splintered fiberglass. He didn’t dare move.

Something was there. Something was at the other end of the things that held him in place, controlling what Martin now realized were  _ fingers. _ Fingers to a very large,  _ wrong _ hand.

_ Well, _ Martin thought to himself hysterically,  _ at least we found him. _

The fingers tightened their hold around him, apparently not keen on Martin escaping. Where would he even have run to? He was trapped, trapped in the twisted hallways of—of whatever Michael was now. There would be no escaping, not unless Michael took pity on him like he supposedly had with Helen.

Martin stifled a sob and pressed the heels of his palms harshly against his eyes as he felt a headache coming on. It was like someone was trying to shove a golf ball through his skull and they were succeeding. It  _ hurt _ and forced its way deeper and when it felt like it had finally broken through—

And all at once he felt an overwhelming wave of emotions—fear and sadness and confusion and anger and pain and, somewhere, almost buried beneath all of it, hope. Martin choked on it, nearly drowned, could barely remember his own name in the face of it. It was like he was overflowing and soon there wouldn’t be enough room left for him, for  _ Martin, _ in his own body. It hurt and he wanted to help as much as he wanted it to just  _ stop, _ please  _ make it stop— _

The thunderous  _ crack _ of someone kicking in a door ripped through the hallway. Then, just as loud, someone screamed Martin’s name.

_ Tim. _

Martin did sob this time. His voice hoarse—had he been screaming? He wasn’t sure—he cried back. He didn’t know if he managed to form the proper sound, if he’d been able to say Tim’s name correctly, but it didn’t matter because it had been  _ enough _ and the pounding of Tim’s feet echoed through the hall as he raced towards Martin.

“Martin!  _ Martin!” _

When Martin dared to take his hands away, the corridor was still a jumbled mess of colors and nonsensical patterns. But now Tim was there, too, standing tall and terrified and righteous. Martin had never been so relieved to see him as he was in that very moment.  _ “Tim.” _

Tim’s looked pale and shaky, but his eyes were bright when they locked onto Martin’s. They only held each other’s gaze for moment, though, before Tim’s slid up and behind Martin. Tim’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “Let him  _ go. Now.” _

A sense of  _ fear, no, never,  _ crashed over Martin with such force that he gasped. Those feelings, they didn’t feel like  _ his. _ The fingers around him did not loosen.

Tim was  _ growling _ now, eyes glowing moonlit yellow and his body tensed to spring. Martin felt himself drawn back, away from Tim and towards Michael.

“Please,” Martin gasped out. “M-Michael, please. We d-don’t want to fight. W-we—we want to help.”

Everything seemed to go still, just for a moment, and then Martin was  _ drowning.  _ More foreign feelings were flooding through him, so desperate and terrified and starved that it made Martin’s veins  _ burn _ , stole the breath from his lungs, made his body  _ ache. _ It  _ hurt. _

Underlying it all was this storming sense of  _ me? _ and  _ help _ and  **_please._ **

Martin gasped for breath. Took in a ragged breath, choking down a sob. “Y-yeah, we. We want to help. B-but you—you have to—to let g-go of me.”

A pause. And then the fingers around Martin unwound, pulled back. Martin stumbled, his body heavy and fatigued. Tim was there, catching him in his arms before Martin could hit the floor(?) of the corridor.

“I’ve got you,” Tim whispered, fervent and forceful. “I’ve got you, it’s going to be okay.”

Martin just nodded as best he could, willing his legs to stop shaking. When he felt like he could finally stand without immediately toppling over, he straightened out. Tim still kept an arm around him and Martin still leaned his weight against Tim. Martin took in a ragged breath. “We—we want to know how to, to help you. Can you… tell us?”

“Martin,” Tim hissed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, considering—”

“It’s fine,” Martin assured him. “It’s not—it doesn’t feel good, but it’s… it’s fine. I’m okay, I promise. You just… you have to trust me.”

For a minute they simply stayed like that, Tim’s eyes locked on Michael, watching him, as Martin’s heart pounded. Then, “If you’re sure.”

Martin nodded, even if Tim couldn’t see it. He let his eyes move back to Michael, the creature’s form crooked and undulating. Martin didn’t like looking at him. “Tell us how to help. I-if you can. Please.”

Martin closed his eyes and braced against the new swell of emotions and impressions. There was still that undercurrent of desperation and intense  _ need, _ but curiosity joined the mix now. Most prominent of all, though, were the feelings of helplessness and utter confusion. It almost felt like—like Michael was  _ lost. _ Was Michael trapped in the maze of the corridors? But then, how did he know where to find new people? That didn’t make sense, not to Martin’s mind, dizzy as it was. Michael wanted help and he felt lost and confused and he’d told Helen his name and he used to be human and now he was fae and something went wrong and he was unstable and maybe didn’t even know  _ himself  _ now and—

Oh.  _ Oh. _

“Y-your name is Michael Shelley,” Martin told him, hoping against hope that this would work. “A-and you—you like going to the Victoria Embankment Gardens. You—I think you had a friend? Looked like a goth. You grew up here, in Haringey. U-um.”

Tim’s eyes darted to him. “What are you doing?”

“I-I’m trying to, to see if I can help? I think if I can—if I just—”

**_More._ **

Martin’s and Tim’s attention snapped back to Michael. It hadn’t been a word, not quite; more of a concept, a feeling, but distinct and undeniable.

“Y-you want to know more?” Martin asked.

**_Yes. Forgot. Me. More?_ **

Martin could do that.

“You—I think you lived in Hampstead before, before this. You were blond, like, magazine blond. A-and pale and tall. And nervous, I think?”

“Older than us, too,” Tim said when Martin stopped to catch his breath. “Seemed to like taking pictures of dogs and landscapes. Ever fancy yourself a photographer?”

Michael was quiet. His head—it was definitely a head now—shook.

“Well, it was kind of amatuer, so not surprised.” Martin vaguely registered that as Tim’s attempt at a joke.

“I-is that enough? F-for now?”

Michael’s head tilted, one of his hands coming up to rest on a chest-like area. He almost had something that looked torso-adjacent now. Martin could make out golden strands flowing from Michael’s head if he squinted.

**_More?_ **

“We don’t have a lot more,” Tim admitted, “but we have friends who can help. Friends who know a lot more about this stuff than us. And if you let us out, then we can bring you to them. Maybe get back some of your sense of self.”

Michael seemed to consider the proposition. Martin and Tim waited with bated breath. Then, after far too long, Michael nodded. He raised a hand.

Before Tim and Martin was a door.

They both scrambled through it as quickly as they could, tumbling back out into the alleyway in Haringey and onto the cold, hard ground. Ground that was solid and  _ not  _ psychedelic and  _ not _ in a twisting, unknowable labyrinth. Martin had never been so happy to hit the ground so hard.

“Martin?”

Martin turned over onto his back. Tim stared down at him, not even properly off the ground, just held up by his arms. The moon hung bright in the sky behind him.

“Martin, are you okay?”

Martin blinked up at him. He let out something that was more of a laugh than a sob, mangled and bordering hysterical. “Y-yeah, Tim. I’m okay. Are you?”

“I'm fine,” Tim answered, no hesitation to it at all. “Gods, that was—you were there and then you  _ weren’t, _ and there was a door and I was so  _ afraid _ and—I’m just. I am  _ so happy _ that you’re alright.”

It took some effort, but Martin raised a hand to cup Tim’s cheek. Tim leaned into the touch. “S-sorry, I really didn’t mean to. The door, it, it called to me and I didn’t even know I was opening it until it was too late. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Compulsion. It compelled you. Fuck, I  _ knew _ it did that, but I didn’t think—I can resist it and didn’t ever think you’d run into it on your own. I should have said something, shit.”

“I-it’s fine now. B-but yeah, in the future that would be… good.” Martin’s brow furrowed. “Wait, if it can’t compel you, then why were you in there?”

Tim paused. Looked to the side. “Well, you were gone and it was there so I figured, you know. That I need to go in after you.”

_ “Tim. _ Did you go charging into a monster’s hellscape just to  _ save me?” _

“… Maybe.”

Martin choked on a laugh, his chest filled with disbelief and warmth and love. “God, and here you were, worried about  _ me _ getting into danger. You just rushed right in.”

“Only because I had to save  _ you _ from the monster,” Tim pointed out. He looked up. “Wait, where is—”

A loud, drawn out creak cut him off. They both turned to see a yellow door swing open, Michael stepping out from it.

He looked… better. Not  _ good, _ but his form was infinitely more human than it had been before. His hands were still too long and too sharp, and he twisted in ways that were physically impossible, but Martin could make out where most of him began and ended, could pick out his eyes and the line of his mouth. He looked more like some strange, Picasso-esque painting that had come to life than the physical embodiment of a headache.

“Speak of the devil,” Tim muttered. He carefully picked himself up, keeping his eyes trained on Michael. He reached a hand out to Martin and helped pull him up. “Suppose you want to get going then, don't you?”

Michael nodded.  **_Help._ **

“Right,” Tim said. “Probably shouldn't hop on the tube with you.” The very distinct mental image of Michael standing on the tube, one too-long hand wrapped around the bar as horrified passengers looked on flashed in Martin’s mind. “Hm. If we went somewhere else, would you be able to find us and make a door there?”

A pause. Then another nod.

“Will you be alright?” Martin asked. “I mean, will you be able to… not get lost again?”

Another nod, this one more sure.  **_Know. Remember._ **

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” Tim sighed. “We’ll, we’ll call for you once we get there.”

“And then you can get proper help,” Martin added. “Promise.”

At that, Michael… did something with his face. His mouth split sideways, stretching off of his face, long and sharp and almost  _ glowing. _

It took Martin a long moment to realize Michael was trying to  _ smile _ at them.

“R-right,” Martin breathed out. “See you there?”

Michael graced them with one last nod before turning and ducking back into the door. It groaned as it was pulled closed, stopping with a  _ click _ and then abruptly disappearing from sight.

And then everything in the night was still and quiet.

“Well,” Tim said at length, “I should probably text Jon, huh.”

A wheezy laugh punched out of Martin. “Y-yeah, that, that would be smart. Probably best to let him know we’re going to drop off Michael, hah.” Martin caught his breath. “I hope that he… that he gets to go home. Or that he can make a new one. It’s… Stuff like this is easier when you can do it somewhere safe.”

Tim let a small hum. “I hope so, too. For now though…” 

Martin watched as Tim’s hand knocked into his. Their fingers intertwined like they were finally coming to rest after a long journey, finally slotting back into place once more.

_ “We _ are going to go home,” Tim continued. “And I’m going to make you the best damn tea you’ve ever had, and we’re going to cuddle on the couch until we fall asleep so I can wake up with you in my arms.”

Martin could feel his face warming as he smiled. “Sap.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Hands held tight, they stepped back into the night, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please be sure to kudo, bookmark, and leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic!
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to know anything at all about the larger world of the fic, please do ask! I'd love to answer any questions anyone has :D
> 
> (Also also: I fully intend on adding one last lil epilogue chapter to this, so keep an eye out for it!)
> 
> You can find me [here on tumblr.](https://zykaben.tumblr.com) Feel free to hit me up there!


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